


Prologue: Wormboy

by Teese



Series: When You're Upside Down [1]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anger, Baby Brian gets his heart broken, Heartache, M/M, Misogyny, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 09:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teese/pseuds/Teese
Summary: This is a fucked up love story. It isn’t ‘boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love and live happily ever after’; it’s ‘Marilyn Manson meets Johnny Depp and hell on earth ensues’, hell because both have anger issues, are selfish and don’t know how to love. And when you’re a self-involved asshole who doesn’t know how to love, you do stupid, hurtful shit, and lives are ruined. In this story, Johnny is the main asshole, and he’s a coward. Marilyn in butthurt and doesn’t know if he can forgive Johnny, but who knows, maybe he can? Human hearts can be flexible, after all, even when they shouldn’t be.It gets worse before it gets better. Johnny’s life goes straight to hell. But when everything goes to hell, you’ve got a tough decision to make: Be happy with living in your own bullshit, or, well, do something about it. Can he turn his life around? And perhaps more importantly, can he turn Marilyn’s life around?





	Prologue: Wormboy

**Author's Note:**

> This thing has been in charge of my life for a long, long time now. It's been a pleasure to write, and sure, it gets dark, but it gets funny too, I promise. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated :D I can be slow so comments really motivate me to update the story.

October 16, 1988

Fort Lauderdale, Florida

Had you looked up the definition of ‘angry young man’ in a dictionary, you would have found his picture. He was tall and rakishly thin, with sleek, raven-black hair that reached him below the chest, and he wore an oversized Alice Cooper T-shirt and tight black pants. The most prominent feature of his face was the aquiline nose, large but not disproportionally so, closely followed by the feminine full lips and high cheekbones. His expression was that of seriousness, though the brown eyes said too much, giving him away. He was only nineteen and didn’t know what he was doing, especially on that strangely humid day in a room full of sweaty, experienced journalists who were well prepared. He wasn’t nervous, not really, but he sat on the edge of his seat, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers against his thighs as he waited for the actor to show up. Mr. Depp was running late, and not even fashionably late. They had waited in the room for an hour and the air was stale and reeked of body odors and various perfumes that, when combined, were all but pleasant-smelling. It was claustrophobic. 

The nineteen-year-old rose from his seat, walked around the room for a bit, and then leaned against a column, feeling bored and somewhat restless. He had written down some questions the day before, but of course, having never watched ‘21 Jump Street’, it was impossible to come up with something even half decent. As he stood there, he tried listening in on the conversations of strangers, well aware that they were better prepared for the interview. They were discussing storylines, stylistic choices and characters he had never even heard of before, and being young, he was part of the target audience. Not that braindead TV series had ever been his cup of tea. Besides, he usually wrote about mundane stuff, about local gigs, campus related happenings and other things relevant to students, and he was definitely out of his depth interviewing a celebrity.

“Shit,” he cursed as he glanced down at his wristwatch. It was 13:36. He had made plans for 14:00 – and this particular person did not care to wait.

Mr. Depp was suddenly in the room. The cameras were flashing, people were talking loudly and tripping over one another to get a good look at the young actor. For about five minutes, the noise level was terrible. One person attempted to shout a question louder than the next, and the cameras were going off like machine guns. The nineteen-year-old had been too slow to react – the area where Mr. Depp was now seated had already been jam-packed with journalists – and it would be impossible to get to the front. He shrugged, unfazed. After having heard some of the questions, he realized that he was not terribly interested in displaying his ignorance on the subject of the TV series. He would ‘lend’ some questions from the other journalists instead, and base his article on their work. In all fairness, he was more of a music journalist and didn’t really give a damn about some stupid TV series. He just needed to get the job done. 

“What’s the best part about working on ‘21 Jump Street’?” one woman asked.

“Well,” Johnny said, sounding bored, “I think the best part is helping young-”

“How do you feel about being a teen idol?” asked another woman, cutting the star short. The nineteen-year-old scribbled down some rather colorful phrases regarding how Mr. Depp would rather shave off his eyebrows than be put in some ‘teen idol category’, smiling at the mental images the statement conjured up. While he knew little about the actor, he knew how popular he was among the women at school. That was probably why he had been handed this task – his non-existent ovaries would not explode at the sight of Mr. Depp’s ‘sentimental eyes’, messy hair, or God forbid, those ‘perfectly sculpted Cherokee cheekbones’. That was, at least, how Tina – a colleague – had described the twenty-five-year-old actor.

“… Cage set me up for a meeting with his agent. That’s how I got the audition for ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’.”

“Mr. Depp-”

“That’s all I’ve got time for today.”

When Mr. Depp stood up from the chair after a good twenty minutes, the nineteen-year-old caught his first glimpse of him. His messy hair and chiseled face said enough about his image. Mr. Depp, in spite of his eyebrow comment, was the perfect picture of a so-called pretty boy. Someone who’d eventually drown in the spotlight, their name nothing but a shipwreck at the bottom of the sea. Like the other journalists, the raven-haired man snapped a photo and considered the job done, mediocre but done.

Gazing down at his wristwatch, he groaned and hurried toward the exit. It was nearly 14:00 and he was on thin ice. 

The doorway was clogged by a cluster of people, some of whom were chatting and laughing, and no one but him appeared to be in a hurry to get out. The nineteen-year-old fumed, letting out a sigh of annoyance that no one heard or heeded. How could people be so infuriatingly slow? Just a bunch of sheep, really. 

He looked down again. It was 13:59. The man looked over his shoulder and noticed a red sign that said ‘emergency exit’. He immediately made a dash for the door, stepping on feet and brushing past sweaty bodies in the process, shuddering as he felt the clammy skin of strangers pressing against his own.

He threw the door open and rushed inside, only to run straight into someone, both men tumbling to the floor.

“Ouch,” the nineteen-year-old said, getting back on his feet. Only as he stood there, holding his hand out to whoever he had collided with, did he realize that it was in fact Mr. Depp sitting on the floor, rubbing his sore arm. The actor fixed him with a funny look – a mixture between what-the-hell-are-you-doing and get-the-fuck-out – and the journalist cleared his throat, once again glancing down at his wristwatch. 14:02 now.

“Sorry about that,” he said, feeling stressed. “I’m just in such a fucking hurry and someone was blocking the door, and I thought-”

Someone – quite possibly a bodyguard– grabbed him by the arm and said, “Let’s get you out of here, then.”

“Don’t be mean, David,” Mr. Depp said, offering the bulky man a thin smile. The young journalist was then led down the narrow hallway and to another door that said ‘emergency exit’. David, whose eyes were flashing with some kind of misguided anger, opened the door and spat, “I’m being nice. Now leave.”

He did not need to be asked twice. When the door closed behind him, he let out a breath of relief and checked his wristwatch for the hundredth time that hour. It was 14:06 and he was about to get murdered by his girlfriend, whose perfectly manicured nails were sharp enough to sever an artery, should she be so inclined. With this threat looming in his mind, he all but ran down the street and toward the restaurant – someplace too fancy for his wallet – and bought a single red rose from a flower shop. By the time he reached the restaurant, it was 14:19. He slowly approached the pretty redhead who sat by the window with her arms crossed. The look on her face was, if anything, grim.

“That took you long enough, Brian,” she said upon being handed the rose. He looked rather crestfallen.

“Michele – I’m so sorry I’m late. The fucker never showed up.”

The twenty-four-year-old woman shook her head. Her long bangs fell into her eyes, hiding the green orbs he adored so much.

“Let’s order something,” she said, putting the rose down on the table. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Brian nodded, picking up the menu and paling at the prices.

January 19, 1989

Fort Lauderdale, Florida 

Michele was in France. Brian had just finished another steamy, inspirational letter. It sat on his desk, nearly springing to life with excitement at the prospect of being read by Michele’s gentle eyes, and Brian? He could only sigh longingly and stare out the window, hoping she would not be delayed for a second time. She had to stay there for another month. But her letters were amazing – he had never experienced such romance before – and his smile was never brighter than when the mailman delivered the pink envelopes that smelled like roses.

_Dearest Brian_, she would write. Of course, there would be a heart above the ‘i’, and her capitalized ‘B’ was always embellished, almost like the ones you see in medieval illuminated books. _Dearest Brian, I am sitting alone in my hotel room, watching the busy street below. People watching is great fun – did you know? You’re a writer, so of course you know. The chocolate croissant I’m eating right now is nothing like the ones at home. Much, much better, I tell you. _Ah, that would explain the brown stain on the pink paper. _Such a pity you aren’t here with me, Brian. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and Versailles are all beautiful to see, but without you here, how can anything be truly beautiful? I miss you so…_

He called her. She didn’t answer. He supposed she was busy modeling.

He wished he could have been there with her.

His flat was a far cry from the splendor of Versailles. The kitchen was a war zone. He no longer dared to open the fridge, well aware that some mutant would come crawling out if he did. The only room he cleaned was his bedroom, which functioned as an office most of the time. His roomie, Jim, rarely stopped by, too preoccupied with his slutty girlfriend to do his homework, or housework for the matter, and Brian didn’t really mind. When the world was silent, or as silent as the world could be in Fort Lauderdale, he would write his heart out. Sure, the short stories were rejected seventeen times and he hadn’t gotten published once, but at least he was writing something of his own. Journalism was alright, he supposed, but no one had anything to say. The bands he interviewed – often vile bands – never knew _why _they were in a band. They all goofed around, claiming that they were doing it for ‘pussy’ and ‘drugs’. In his articles, he often chose some prettier words than that, fabricated or not. He often wished it was the other way around; he often wished he could have been the interviewee rather than the interviewer. He had something to say.

Michele called him back. He grinned.

“Phone sex?” she suggested.

“Sure,” he said, wondering what he had done to deserve such a goddess.

* * *

“Why are you calling this number?” a man with a gruff voice demanded to know. 

“It’s my girlfriend’s number,” he replied without blinking.

“Yeah?” the guy said, letting out a mirthless laugh. “It’s also my fiancée’s number.” 

Brian felt as though his lungs had collapsed for a moment there. “Uh… did you know she’s been sleeping with me?” he asked, not knowing what else to say. To his great surprise, the other man seemed completely unfazed by the question.

“She’s such a slut,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, devoid of any indication that this was out of the ordinary.

“What, I… I don’t understand. Her name’s Michele?”

“That’s her.” Silence ensued. Brian held his breath, hoping the guy had misheard him.

“Don’t think you’re the only guy calling asking for Michele, okay? This happens all the fucking time – she can’t keep it in her pants, you know?” Then, as he remembered who he was in fact talking to, his fiancée’s lover, he barked, “And don’t call her again!” and hung up.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

The raven-haired man stared at the receiver for some time, wondering whether or not it had been a joke. He could not for the life of him understand that Michele, the sweet and loving girl who breathed his name like a prayer during sex, was engaged to that baboon. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. She had preferred for them to stay in his bedroom, and the few times they went out in public, she never wanted to hold hands. And she always called him, not the other way around, though she’d gotten sloppy after leaving the continent. Reckless, maybe.

“That fucking bitch,” he whispered under his breath, feeling his heart tightening like a fist. His love for her, which had been pure and innocent, was suddenly transformed into bitter resentment. He had never known lovesickness before, never felt the all-consuming harshness of its reality, but it was now slicing into him like a million tiny knives. It hurt. 

A couple of hours later, Michele called him.

“Brian-”

“I don’t want to hear whatever lousy excuses you’ve come up with,” he snarled, wanting nothing more than to hammer his fists against the walls until they bled. “How could you sleep with me behind your fiancé’s back?” he then asked, truly wanting to know the answer.

“Do you really want to know?” Her voice was hard but still soft in the middle, as if she was working very hard to fight back the tears. “Like, do you really, _really_want to know?”

“Yeah, I really want to fucking know!”

She went quiet for a moment. Brian knew she was crying. Heard the sniffles.

“I-I was…” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I was bored, Brian!”

“Bored,” he echoed, his face twisting into an ugly grimace of distaste and, well, disbelief.

“Yes,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay with Joey after all, and then we met… Brian, I want you to know that I’m very, very sorry, but I love-” 

“Michele, please,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “You’re delusional if you think I’d ever let you fuck me over again! You’re a disgusting slut. Don’t even think about calling me again – do you hear me?”

“… Loud and clear, Brian.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

* * *

Love. The concept of such a thing was as sick and twisted as the women who feigned it. He had always been told that men were the perverts, but Michele had proved him wrong. If not perversion, what was cheating? The worst part about loving her was that it was impossible to stop, because hatred was just the mutilated corpse of love, wasn’t it? And he felt that dark rage beating inside his chest like a second heart. She had broken him. She had corrupted him. She had killed his happiness.

And the worst part was that he had never known happiness before that first kiss.

Or the first time she had whispered, ‘I love you, Brian,’ while riding him. It had been so late it had been early. The sun had peeked in through a gap in the curtains, and her hair had looked as though on fire. 

Oh, that silky happiness of being in bed with her. Skin so white it could have been fucking porcelain. Hair so red it looked like blood, especially in the shower when it clung to her skin. A bleeding river. And the freckles she hated so much. Under the glare of the sun, they appeared on her arms and shoulders, and he would try to count them, but it was about as useful as counting the stars. Then there were the breasts, small and yet prominent, not like those other models. He sometimes thought _his _body was what those homosexual French designers liked. Thin, tall and sinewy, and repulsive to most women. But Michele had somehow seen past that. She had seen past the swollen acne, the drooping earlobes (a surgeon had later operated on them, making them look human), and then the big, aquiline nose, the one that made him look like a caricature of a Jew. How could someone find a person as repulsive as him even remotely attractive?

He was the ugliest duckling to have ever lived, as loathsome as Frankenstein’s monster, really, and a disgusting piece of shit.

And Michele, with a face that could have been the envy of every supermodel he had ever seen in those glossy magazines she collected, had fucked him like no one had ever fucked him before. She had always been severely out of his league and he’d known it. Standing next to her, he looked like a nobody. But she had simply used him, hadn’t she? She had seen his every insecurity, and she had used him for what little he had to give. When she returned to her flat after one of their nights together, she would curl up next to some bloke with bulging muscles and a buzz cut. 

He should have known better. Being an intellectual, he should have known better. He should have known, like his idol, Nietzsche, that women were cunning and clever, and above all else, that they were liars.

“I’ll show her,” he muttered darkly, an angry vein visible on his forehead. But looking down at the pile of papers on his desk – at the short stories and poetry no one wanted to read – he knew he had to change lanes.

With determination written all over his face, he grabbed a hold of the papers and stuffed them in the tiny trash can at the foot of his bed, angry with himself for being such a bad writer and angry with the world for not giving a shit. When he turned his attention back to the now unusually tidy desk, he saw that he’d forgotten a file that contained all his recent articles. His heart softened as he thought about the hours he’d spent in front of the typewriter, and he sighed, wondering what the fuck he’d been thinking. How bloated was his sense of self to think he could get rich and famous just by writing some crappy articles? He wasn’t a journalist, after all, just a piece of self-conceited shit.

“… Hmm.” He quickly skimmed through one of the articles he’d worked on for several days and nights. It was an interview with Trent Reznor, one of the most renowned musicians he’d ever had the chance to meet. Musically, he wasn’t terribly impressed with the guy, but his achievements as a whole? Definitely.

Then something clicked inside his brain, and he was quick to let go of the file, putting it in the trash where it belonged. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Johnny Depp indirectly gave me his blessing to write this. He'd probably change his mind had he actually read it, ha.


End file.
